


Kaleidoscope

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Handcuffs, Incest, M/M, Post-Series, Pre-Series, Season/Series 01, Sibling Incest, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The people they know are not always interested in understanding. Some wonder and try to get it with more or less persistence. Most of them don’t pay much attention and they just go with what’s obvious. (Set post-series, alternate ending)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kaleidoscope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [camille_miko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/camille_miko/gifts).



> Prompt by camille-miko: Michael/Lincoln. Hope, handcuffs and dream. Bittersweet and kinky. LJ’s take on the situation.

__  
**Kaleidoscope**  


The people they know are not always interested in understanding. Some wonder and try to get it with more or less persistence. Most of them don’t pay much attention and they just go with what’s obvious. Occasionally someone does get a hint of that which brings them together, unites them and sometimes sets them apart, but it’s rarely more than a part of the image, a facet, only one of the infinite mirror games of the kaleidoscope.

 

 __  
**Veronica**  


It’s not the first time she’s witnessed it, but she’ll never get used to it. It always leaves a weird taste in her mouth, a mixture of anger, incomprehension and fascination. She probably knows them better than anybody else and yet, they’re still a mystery to her.

This time, it’s because Michael followed Lincoln: Lincoln had told him to wait at their place while he was running an errand, Michael disobeyed; Lincoln found out and of course got mad.

Disobeying Lincoln is never a good idea, Michael should have understood that long ago. And Vee guesses that he did understand it long ago, he just doesn’t care and he acts the way he wants whenever he thinks he’s within his rights or merely feels like it. Or maybe it’s pure and simple provocation on his part; even though Lincoln isn’t aware of it, Veronica is sure that Michael does that.

Lincoln can be quite patient and understanding – weirdly patient and understanding with Michael anyway, not with anybody else – but still, disobeying him isn’t a good idea. Sooner or later comes the moment when he’s at loss for words (and Michael is pretty good to induce that) and when it happens, he hits. He hits because he can’t think of anything else to do, of how to make Michael obey him or make him understand that Lincoln tries to act in his best interests. This is not his favorite way of communication, far from it, and he doesn’t make a habit of it, but it has happened a few times. Usually because Michael has been hanging out with the wrong people in the wrong place at the wrong time. He learned at his own expense that “But they’re your buddies too, Linc!” wasn’t a valid argument. Actually, this argument never fails to arouse Lincoln’s anger. _Do as I say, not do as I do_. It usually ends up with a wigging and a lecture reminding Michael that he’s better than that, a thought that Veronica can only second.

“You know you’re better than that,” Lincoln murmurs. There’s guilt and regret in his voice as well as a remaining hint of anger. Michael willingly complies when Lincoln grabs his chin and turns his face towards the light to inspect the damage. He leans into Lincoln’s familiar, almost ritual gesture. “Come on,” Lincoln says, “let’s take care of this.”

Vee stands in the bathroom doorway while Lincoln closes the toilet seat and sits and Michael settles on the edge of the tub. She watches them, her arms crossed and eyebrows knitted, and shakes her head.

“He should go to the hospital, Lincoln.”

“I’m fine,’” Michael answers quickly before his brother can even open his mouth to speak. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Of course it doesn’t. There are a few advantages into getting a beating from someone who, depending on the current mood, can either not _really_ hurt you or inflict the maximum amount of damage. Michael points out that it’s not so bad and he’s right, just a bit of blood on his forehead. Doesn’t even come from one of Lincoln’s blows, not directly anyway – he cut his brow when he stumbled over a chair.

“If I go to the hospital, the social worker...”

“God!” Vee cuts him off. She throws up her hands and lets them fall to concede her defeat. It’s a well-known song: if social services learn what happened, Michael will go back to foster care. Vee can feel her stomach churning when she looks at his bruised temple, but she knows perfectly well that nothing could be worse for him than being separated from Lincoln. “You’re insane, both of you.”

Michael closes his eyes and a small smile tugs the corner of his lips when Lincoln delicately swabs the cut with a piece of cotton.

“You realize how dysfunctional this is, don’t you?” Vee adds.

“You being accepted in that law school doesn’t mean you have the right to make up words,” Lincoln says. He doesn’t look at her when he speaks, his attention doesn’t waver from Michael’s face for a split second and, for a while, Veronica doesn’t say a word. She just watches them, spellbound by Lincoln’s concentration. It’s the kind of undivided attention that he grants her when they’re alone and he wants something special, really special.

“Actually it is a word,” Michael replies, careful not to move – he’s already been poked in the eye while Lincoln was swabbing and nursing him after a burst of anger. He’s wary, now.

“See, that’s the reason why you must keep on going to school rather than hanging out with those wannabe thugs. So you can learn new stuff and throw it in my face.”

It’s not the first time it has happened and Vee would bet her right hand that it won’t be the last one. She’d just like to be a bit more horrified by their unconventional way of showing their affection for each other.

 

 __  
**Lisa**  


Michael doesn’t like Lisa, and Lisa doesn’t like Michael. Neither she nor he will admit it though, and their antagonism is carefully buried, concealed, wrapped up into a layer of decent familial affection. So carefully actually, that neither is aware of it anymore. Lisa trusts Michael. When LJ was still a baby or a kid, she blindly trusted Michael to baby sit him whereas she always snowed Lincoln with advice and recommendations. When LJ was a bit older, he’s been told more than once to “Look at your uncle!”

Yet the sentence rang wrong to Lisa. Somewhere deep in a part of her brain that she cautiously avoids analyzing, she knows that Michael doesn’t like her. She steals part of Lincoln’s affection. Or more precisely, LJ steals part of Lincoln’s affection but of course, Michael just loves LJ because he’s Lincoln’s son. The other person responsible for his existence, however? Not so much.

She won’t linger on the idea that the feeling is reciprocal, but that doesn’t change a thing, she doesn’t like Michael. She doesn’t like him because Lincoln gives him way too much attention. She would almost think this is jealousy on her part, except that it would be absurd. Being jealous of your boyfriend’s baby brother is absurd, isn’t it, the two of you don’t belong in the same league. And yet, when she sees Lincoln’s hand resting on Michael’s shoulder, she can’t help feeling her stomach tighten. She can’t quite name the sensation. Whether this is from an intellectual or an emotional perspective, something eludes her. It’s incomprehensible, indescribable, unspeakable; intuitively, she thinks that maybe it’s for the best, maybe it’s not meant to be understood, described and spoken out loud.

She can remember a holiday dinner, maybe Thanksgiving or Christmas, something like that. She can’t really say; she just knows that there were candles and snow and a meal Michael had helped her prepare. She just knows Lincoln and her weren’t living together anymore but had enough common sense to spend the holiday together for LJ’s sake. What she won’t forget, however, is Michael’s gaze on her, the half smile he gave her when their eyes met across the table: there was sadness and compassion when he looked at her. And a dash of satisfaction, a glimpse of victory he probably wasn’t even aware of.

 

 __  
**Lincoln**  


At the time, the handcuffs didn’t seem like a bad idea. It’s not like it was something new, anyway, this kind of thing has been Michael’s fixation for a while. The first time, he used a necktie – a blue silk necktie, his own obviously, because Lincoln won’t wear those things unless he really has to. Then there was a belt and once, Lincoln’s t-shirt pushed up, twisted and tied before Lincoln realized how it had happened. So, when Michael got the handcuffs out of his briefcase and quizzically looked at Lincoln, Lincoln shrugged and said, “Sure,” with a half smile. He felt warmth trailing in his lower belly at the idea of his brother having them hidden under his files and plans and stuff all day long, carrying them between meetings and presentations.

To be honest, he even thought that the handcuffs were a good idea. It pleases Michael, and Lincoln likes to please Michael. He certainly wouldn’t define himself as someone who feels as much satisfaction in giving pleasure as in receiving it – except with a very small number of people, one of which includes Michael. But of course, in his universe, a good deed is rarely rewarded, and he pays for his leniency now. He’s lying in a weird position, on his side, crooked at the waist, his stomach and hips pushed into the mattress by Michael’s relentless thrusts; his hands are bound to the headboard of the bed and his face is stuck between his biceps. He finds some comfort in the idea that, even though his arms seem ready to be dislodged from his shoulders and his spine is about to bend, it does please Michael. Lincoln can feel and hear it. His brother moves behind him in languorous and steady, deep and deliberate strokes, grips Lincoln’s thigh and sinks his teeth in Lincoln’s shoulder. The little noises that escape from him show without a shadow of a doubt that Lincoln’s abnegation is not in vain.

“Linc...”

“Yeah?” he asks, but Michael doesn’t really answer. Just another _Linc_ stretching with an absurd amount of I, plaintive and breathless, a _oh_ , a _hm_. Okay, this kind of _Linc_. The one calling for a response that is physical, not verbal. Smiling with satisfaction, he arches backwards and tries, in spite of his tricky position, to melt into Michael’s embrace.

To be one hundred percent honest, for a short while, Lincoln thinks that the handcuffs were a fabulous idea. Those seconds during which Michael’s skin slides against his, moist with sweat, while he clings at him as if his life was at stake. Then, the shudders that just shook him barely subsiding, his breathing still quick and rough, Michael pulls out, pulls back and rolls to sit on the edge of the bed. Lincoln waits for a couple of seconds, thinking something will happen – _do to others as you would like them to do to you_ and all that jazz – but then he feels Michael’s weight leaving the mattress. In a terrible crack of wood and bones, he turns over as far as he can to see Michael reaching for the first piece of clothing he can lay his hand on, Linc’s jeans as it turns out, and slipping it on.

“Hey!”

“I’m coming right back,” he promises. He leans in to brush a quick kiss on Lincoln’s lips and pulls up the blanket around him. It’s a nice, considerate move since, as soon as Michael’s skin isn’t touching his anymore, he shivers with cold and need, but it isn’t _exactly_ what he’d hope for.

He rests his head on the pillow and waits. It’s not like he can do anything else since he’s still handcuffed to the bed, the small key on the night table, tantalizing and unreachable. He hears noise in the kitchen, Michael rummaging through the fridge. Little shit. With a frustrated sigh, Lincoln looks down, studies the bulge under the sheet at his lower stomach and, carefully, he shifts his hips, looking for a bit of friction. Bad idea. It’s too much and far from enough at the same time.

When he looks up, Michael is watching him from the doorway, leaning against the wall. Lincoln hesitates between yelling at him to come here right now and enjoying the view: he’s lazily clearing out an ice-cream container, his skin still moist and his eyes hooded, wearing only the pair of jeans that belongs to Lincoln. The pants, a bit too large, run low on his hips; they look like they’re about to slide down but never quite carry out the promise. Cocktease. Michael and the jeans are a total match.

“For God’s sake, Mike!” A slight pout greets the imprecation, letting him know that he won’t get what he wants with this kind of attitude. “Please,” he starts again more reasonably.

“You were supposed to pay me a visit last week.”

Shit.

“I’m sorry.”

“We were supposed to do things.”

“We can do things now,” he offers, enthusiastic and hopeful altogether.

Michael gives him a stern look. “Not this kind of thing.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. He watches the spoon dip deep in the container and being shoved between Michael’s lips. “You’re leaving me... like this, just to make a point?”

For a few moments, Michael looks like he’s seriously taking that into consideration, then he sighs, “You know I won’t,” and comes back to bed. The jeans shift with each step he takes, but they still don’t slide down.

He straddles Lincoln and leans into him to kiss him, his lips and fingers still cold of the ice-cream, his stomach warm against Lincoln’s. He wriggles to get rid of the pants; the rough contact of the jeans on Lincoln’s heated flesh is pure torture. The damn pants finally fall on the floor. Lincoln lets out small appreciative grunt when Michael settles between his legs and slips a hand under the small of his back to tightly press them together.

“That was the strawberry ice-cream?” he asks between two kisses. “You could have let me some.”

“Want me to get out and buy you another tub?” he acts as if he’s about to get up; instinctively, Lincoln restrains him between his knees and licks his lips, thinking that the lingering taste of ice-cream is more than enough for now. Even quite pleasant. “What do you want?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Michael smiles down at him, a sarcastic and amused grin. Lincoln grits his teeth. The little fucker wasn’t that sarcastic and amused fifteen minutes ago when he was gasping in his neck, totally incoherent. A glare, a roll of hips to make him move, and Michael bends forwards in an exasperating slow move. He’s taking his time. He’s really taking his time, Lincoln thinks while shifting impatiently. He brushes, kisses and strokes and, when Lincoln grumbles and expectantly arches his back, he bites him and grasps his hips to push him back against the mattress.

“Don’t make me beg, Michael, or I’ll make you sorry for it.”

“Is that a promise?”

Without conscious thought, Lincoln tries to lay a hand on his neck and push his head down. He’s brutally called back to reality: the chain grates on the wood, and the steel of the handcuffs bites into his wrists. He swallows back a curse, then another. The third one is caught in his throat when he sees Michael’s mouth and hands engulfing him. The soft, warm lips slide on him and he bucks under the caress. He can stand the sight and he can stand the touch, but at this point combining them is the assurance that everything ends way sooner than he’d like. He averts his eyes and lets his head roll to the side, pressing his cheek into the pillow. Their figures cast indistinct black shadows on the wall of the bedroom, and he watches Michael’s head move, slowly bob up and down, the top of his skull split between the wall and the ceiling. Shadow puppet porn, he thinks. He shuts up. He doesn’t quip a word because he can guess that Michael wouldn’t appreciate the comparison and it’s really, really not the right moment to piss him off.

He lifts his hips and he’s straight away held on the bed by a gentle yet firm grip. Michael murmurs right against his skin, orders him not to move, and Lincoln focuses on the slow dancing of the shadows on the wall. They seem to stretch indefinitely, liquid and weightless and making a whole. There, in this projection of them, nothing allows to say where he ends and where Michael begins. He likes that. Another thing he doesn’t say, this time for an entirely different reason – there would be, as soon as Michael shrugs off his post-coital bliss, sarcastic comments. He’s suddenly in desperate need to hold on to something and he wraps his fingers around the headboard bars.

“You’re still with me?” his brother asks softly. “Look at me.”

He complies, looks down and meets Michael’s gaze. There’s on his face more feelings, more tenderness and desire and complicity than Lincoln ever thought he would be able to inspire and feel himself. There’s also, when Lincoln arches his back and grinds into Michael with a grunt, a hint of triumph.

When he comes back to the here and now, when he’s aware again of what’s going on around him, Michael is untying him, opening the handcuffs and taking them off. He gently massages his wrists and forearms, rubbing off the numbing sensation caused by the enforced stillness. With a smile, in a sweeping gesture that makes the bed squeak, Lincoln rolls him over and kisses him, grabs his hands and pins them to the pillow.

“Someday, you’ll have to let me cuff you,” he suggests, nodding at the handcuffs.

Michael blinks and merely answers, his tone flat and definitive, “No.”

“Why?”

It’s not the first time he asks and gets a rebuff, but it is the first time he asks for an explanation. Michael doesn’t answer right away, and when he finally does, his voice is low and a bit sad.

“Because of the two of us, I’m not the one who will eventually disappear and not come back,” he lets drop before he tries to break free and get up.

Lincoln swallows hard, sorry he asked the question, and snakes an arm around his waist to hold him back. “Eh, where are you going now?”

“Just getting something to clean up a bit. We’re...”

“Forget it.” He embraces him and grinds against him. Michael writhes, protests for form’s sake but eventually lets it go and slackens, breathing out a surrender sigh. “You’re not going anywhere,” Lincoln orders. He reaches out for the handcuffs on the night table, snaps one of the cuffs around his own wrist, the other one around Michael’s. “I’m not going anywhere.” The contact of the steel on his already tender skin is unpleasant, but the glance that Michael throws him above his shoulder is well worth the discomfort.

He knows that it’s a rather vain hope. He would just have to hang around Michael a bit too long, and all he sacrificed so that his brother has the life he deserves will be rendered useless. His mere presence may very well screw up everything, it’s usually how things end up with him. But for now, he wraps his arms and legs around Michael, he holds him and breathes along with him.

 

 __  
**T-Bag**  


He doesn’t know if he wants to kill him or fuck him.

Oh well, that’s not quite true. He does know. He just can’t decide of the order in which he would proceed if the opportunity arose. Too bad it probably won’t happen any time soon since, for now, what lays in Scofield’s brain has more value for Theodore than what lays in his pants. It’s a Tantalus’ torture that makes Teddy smile because, despite all his shortcomings, he can appreciate the irony of the situation.

Not to mention that he has to take into account Burrows’ presence. He gets a tough reminder of this when he turns towards the Fish in the locker room while they’re changing from to their blue overalls to their regular clothes. Pants shoved down his thighs and hips jutting forward, he proudly exposes himself and throws, “See what I’ve got for you, Pretty?”

He expected a reflex glance and a contemptuous sniffle, and then Scofield turning away and ignoring him. Instead of that, the Fish carefully scrutinizes him and, a smirk curling his lips – this is a point that arises no hesitation within Teddy: he knows exactly how he would use Michael’s so pretty mouth – retorts quietly, “Nothing extraordinary. I’ve seen way better.”

Theodore licks his lips, lingering on the hollow of his lower lip, and ponders his answer. The kid is so insolent when he has an audience standing for him – and he has, since Sucre grumbles and Abruzzi sniggers – Teddy could almost laugh.

Burrows doesn’t grumble or snigger, though: he grabs Theodore by the neck of his t-shirt and pushes him backward. His skull rudely hits the wall, the impact making him hear bells ring between his ears. Sink shoves his knee against Theodore’s crotch and, for a short while, the rough contact of the jeans on his sensitive flesh is almost pleasant. He really doesn’t care for Burrows – not his kind of guy – but Theodore has to admit that, currently, pretty much anyone would do the deed. Then the knee presses a little harder, the hands on his neck and shoulders pushes him down, and he’s stuck, smashed, crushed between the wall and Burrows and, _shit_ , Teddy is no fan of pain, not when he’s on the receiving end anyway. Panting, his eyes stinging, he can discern through a haze a sneer on Burrows’ lips.

“You know I was joking, Sink. What happened to your sense of humor?”

“You make a joke like that again and I’ll cut off your balls and shove them down your throat,” Lincoln tells him. Well. Not an original or imaginative threat by a long shot, but the conviction in his tone quite makes up for that. Burrows slightly bends backward and, when he looks down, he smiles, the same condescending smile his brother had a few seconds ago. “Nothing left to see, uh, T-Bag?” he points out and gently pats his shoulder.

So, yeah, he has to take Burrows’ presence into account. The idea bugs and bothers him while he painfully dresses again, walks in the hallways and through the doors and gates to his cell. When he falls onto his bunk, his back to the wall, Seth kneels in front of him with resignation. He lightly kicks the kid in the shoulder, pushing him back, unable to find comfort in the thought that he needed only a few days to tame his latest boy toy.

“Go see Trokey and ask him if you can do something nice for him.” Not that he likes to share what’s been offered to him, but he would do anything to avoid sitting here and endure the sequels of Burrows’ humiliation. “Come on, boy! Get lost.”

Seth walks backwards to the door, not quite sure whether this is a respite or a more terrible torment. With a smug smile – he will at least have this victory – T-Bag rolls on himself and lies on his back, an arm hiding his face. He can’t keep his eyes close for long, though, because each time, Burrows’ face, distorted with rage, comes back to his memory. It’s a disturbing image. There was, in Sink’s eyes and voice, this righteous fury, an unspeakable anger and disgust implicitly expressing the measure and purity of his affection, of his love for his brother. T-Bag is not sure he inspired and felt himself such feelings, he strongly doubts he will ever feel them and he knows he will never inspire them. Or maybe for a so fleeting moment with contempt and disgust at the end of it all.

He turns over on his side and sneers with derision. The measure and purity of love. He didn’t remember that physical pain made him lapse into sentimentalism like that. He focuses on more comforting ideas, on the image of Scofield. In his thoughts, he forces his mouth, muses over the way the Fish would have to bend and bow if Theodore pushed him on all fours or, on the contrary, made him spread his legs and exposed him.

The fantasy elicits a wave of pleasure that is quickly replaced with a sharp pain and brings him back to reality. He suddenly realizes that he still doesn’t know what he wants. He wants to hear Scofield beg, that’s for sure. Whether he wants him to beg to stop or implore Teddy to continue, he hasn’t decided of the details yet, but he sure does want Pretty to beg.

What he can’t tell, however, is if he wants Scofield or what Scofield and his brother share.

 

 __  
**Sucre**  


It happens during one the rare moments when the three of them, Michael, Burrows and him, are alone in the guards’ break room. For some reason, the tension between the Fish and his brother has been tangible since early that morning, to such an extent that Abruzzi dropped a couple of snarky comments; it’s only when Abruzzi leaves the room with T-Bag that the gloves are off, though. Nothing spectacular, just a few ironic, dry sentences traded between the two of them, atypical enough to draw Sucre’s attention – usually, Michael’s tone stays even and Lincoln just grumbles or grouses whatever he has to say. Very soon, they’re standing nose to nose, their voices barely an exasperated and hissing murmur as the discussion gets harsher. Michael grits his teeth, Lincoln clenches his fists. To each his own weapons, Sucre assumes.

In the presence of other people, they always show a united front, a smooth façade. Yet, sometimes, Sucre can see things he isn’t supposed to see. Things that, he’s almost certain, others don’t notice. He was the only witness of Michael’s despondency when, on a couple of occasions, his damn plan very nearly took a bad turn. He was the only witness of Lincoln’s panic at the end of the riots. Sure, everybody _saw_ , but he was the only one to actually realize, when Sink gripped his jaw and looked him in the eye, how much dread lay under his anger and impatience.

Sucre wonders whether he should feel flattered or insulted that they don’t make a bigger deal of his presence. Inspiring trust is one thing, but they’re in jail for God’s sake, and he can’t help thinking that arousing a bit more of wariness would be...

He doesn’t have the time to dwell on that thought. The clash reaches his paroxysm when Lincoln throws something about acting for the wrong reasons. When he sees the expression on Michael’s face, he tries to apologize and clutches Michael’s arm. Spitting an angry “Go to Hell!” (and Sucre thinks that, really, this is not the kind of thing to tell to a death row inmate), Michael spins on his heels, grabs Sucre by the nape of his neck and kisses him. On the mouth. Tongue and everything because Sucre had the bad, bad idea to open his mouth to protest and Michael shamelessly...

He struggles. At least, as soon as he’s gathered his thoughts, he tries to shake off Michael’s embrace. Not that easy, because the Fish holds him firmly, a hand behind his head, the other in his back, and really doesn’t pay attention to Sucre’s efforts to break free.

“Mature. Really mature, Michael,” Lincoln points out, his tone heavily laden with derision. “For someone who’s supposed to be the older brother to his older brother...”

Michael disregards the remark and the kiss continues. And continues a bit more, leaving Sucre torn between an indistinct disgust and an odd curiosity. He doesn’t do this kind of thing, he’d rather sacrifice... he doesn’t know what... than allow a guy to touch him like that. Yet, even though he knows that in a couple of hours he will hate himself for it, curiosity prevails, and he closes his eyes, unclenches his jaw and lets Michael kiss him. There’s something in the way the Fish hugs and holds him, avidity and despair, that forbids him to act as he would want and should – step back and punch the man in the face.

Next to them, he can hear a curse, footsteps, and then Michael’s hands move on him, make him swirl, and he stands face to face with Lincoln.

Michael was demanding, almost aggressive; Lincoln tests delicately, almost politely, tastes and teases with a surprising kindness. All that without tearing his eyes from Michael. The crazy thought that it’s not actually him that Lincoln is kissing flashes through Sucre’s mind and he pushes it away to the best of his abilities. He really doesn’t want to think about what it means; the facts are already disturbing enough, he doesn’t need to elaborate wooly theories.

He tries to move back, to free himself, but Michael pushes into him, pushes him into Lincoln, and he’s trapped between them. Their arms snake around his shoulders, their fingers join on his neck, in his back, on his hips. He can feel one of Michael’s hands sneak down his stomach to his crotch, squeeze and stroke. There’s a reassuring “Shh, Fernando...” when he jerks, then a wet kiss in his neck. He lets out a small, absurd sound, part sigh and part protest. Lincoln smiles against his mouth and murmurs, “He’s good, huh?” Fernando screws his eyes shut and refuses to think.

It’s a noise outside of the break room that separates them. In a split second, Michael is back to his trowel, Lincoln to his paint brush. Suddenly deprived of the weird and inappropriate support they were offering him, Sucre stumbles and steps back to lean into the wall, his cheeks burning hot. He frantically wipes his face on his sleeve, coughs, spits and swears, glares at them when they look at him with amusement.

“You’re no better than T-Bag!”

“You think T-Bag would’ve been happy with sucking faces?” Lincoln says.

“Your brother touched...” He stops abruptly and raises his hands in front of him as to keep both of them away. “I don’t know what your problem is, but leave me out of this bullshit.”

Wincing, he spits one last time on the dirty floor, scratches his mouth on the back of his hands and grouses a last “ _Coños_!” He can’t however hold in a small smile, and he turns his back to them when he sees them exchanging a complicit glance.

They show a smooth façade and make up to the expense of the people surrounding them – him, in this case, but he suspects that it’s hardly the first time they’ve joined forces like that.

 

 __  
**Sara**  


A hissing in-take of air and three small exhalations sounding like a purr. The sound is even, rhythmic in the quiet hotel bedroom. Sara listens to it for a few minutes, involuntary matching her own breathing with it. In the end, she lets her head roll to the side and asks Lincoln, “Does he often snore like that?”

“As far as I remember, only when he’s really exhausted.” From his armchair a few feet away, he raises his head to cast a look at Michael who is asleep on the bed next to Sara. He stretched out on his stomach, fully clothed, an arm folded under his cheek. He doesn’t touch Sara, he barely brushes her, his elbow gazing her arm. “Not very sexy, huh?”

She doesn’t answer him. She’s not ready to admit that she finds that quite touching, the embarrassing little flaw as well as the fact that he trusts them – her – enough to let go. She just watches with fascination as Lincoln folds and folds again a paper sheet, his thick fingers surprisingly delicate and nimble. An origami crane. It’s his third since Michael fell asleep.

It’s Lincoln who demanded that they rest, that Michael should stop for a couple of hours and that he _sleep_ for God’s sake, before he drives them crazy. Demanded that Sara lies next to him because she looks like hell – “Thank you, Lincoln!” He slumped into an armchair, as if he wanted to watch them and make sure they would obey, and he started to fold. He’s quite an odd watchman and Sara’s been a bit surprised; she thought that this need to control things, situations and people was Michael’s privilege. She can’t blame him, though. After three years not belonging to himself anymore, he does deserve compensation.

She suspects that a part of his interest for her is because _Michael_ cares for her, and she’s totally okay with that. It’s reciprocal. A few days ago, in Fox River... she did... what she did because she was convinced of Lincoln’s innocence. However she’s honest enough to know that she wouldn’t have reviewed his file without Michael’s request.

“I would never have done for him what he did for me,” Lincoln suddenly drops without looking at her, his fingers creasing the crane’s beck.

“Not a lot of people would have done what he did.” He nods his approval and from his expression, she can see that he’s grateful she doesn’t try to contradict him or prove him wrong. “But I’m sure you’ve done quite a deal of dumb things for him too.”

Michael rolls onto his side, his hand groping around and finally resting on Sara’s stomach, right under her breasts. For a few seconds, Lincoln stares at the hand, at the splayed fingers slightly clutching the shirt’s fabric, then he starts to get on his feet, grumbling, “I’d better...”

“It’s okay. Stay,” she asks.

Michael shifts again, the movement pushing his sleeve up a bit and uncovering some lines and curves of the tattoos. Lincoln observes the drawings, unable to tear his eyes from them.

“The dumb things... some, not all of them...,” he admits, “it was to avoid him turning as bad as me.” He looks at Sara’s face. “In Fox River, I asked you to watch him... after.” She nods, letting him know that she remembers, was and still is okay with that. “If things turn wrong, later, make sure he gets the hell out of here. Make sure the both of you get the hell out of here. I don’t want him to mess up again like when he promised Pope to turn himself in. He won’t always deal with a guy like Pope.”

They’re caught in a weird spiral – Michael persisting in saving Lincoln, and Lincoln persisting in protecting Michael – and Lincoln’s words make her smile.

“You do realize this is wishful thinking, don’t you?”

“But you will try, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” With one of the paper cranes in his hand, he gets up from the armchair, leans over Sara and pushes the origami into Michael’s half open mouth. “It should either choke him or wake him up,” he grumbles. “Hopefully, he’ll stop snoring.”

 

 __  
**Sofia**  


Every now and then, when she visits Lincoln and LJ, Michael is here. She knows that he comes and sees them regularly, at least once a week. Lincoln and he sit on the small veranda behind the house and, their eyes glued to the skyline, they stay here for a couple of hours, still and quiet. Sometimes Sofia is inside the house, just on the other side of the window; sometimes LJ and her are right near the brothers; either way, nothing seems able to catch their attention, to interfere with their silent communication. None of them is chatty, but ‘silence’ reaches a whole new level when they’re together.

She assumes that after what they’ve been through, they share something that is beyond words.

A slamming door followed by footsteps disrupts the peace of the house. She startles. When she turns her head and looks up, she can see LJ’s face. Except for two red spot on his cheekbones, he’s pale, his eyes shining, and he shifts nervously, balancing his weight from one leg to the other.

“You all right?” she asks, a bit worried.

“Yeah... I just.... Yeah.”

“I was leaving. Want to come with me?”

She asks without expecting a positive answer. As recurring and quiet his uncle’s Mike visits are, LJ always makes sure to be here when he comes. Yet, today, he glances towards the veranda and shrugs.

“Why not? You let me drive?”

She snatches her car keys and waves them in his face. “You come and shop with me?”

“Deal,” he accepts and grabs the keys.

 

 __  
**LJ**  


He closes the bathroom door and throws up his lunch. And then his breakfast for good measure. It lasts forever and, in a way, he’d like that it never stops. He gags and feels his stomach heave, but it’s almost welcome; it allows him to focus on something else. In the end, he’s left with a taste of bile on his tongue and tears stinging the corner of his eyes. He wipes his mouth with a piece of paper, flushes the toilet and collapses against the wall. He doesn’t feel well enough to stay on his knees, let alone get up and walk.

Last week, he saw them. It wasn’t on purpose, he didn’t mean to spy on them, he just saw them. In Michael’s studio. Not that there was actually a lot to see. Just a slightly too tight embrace, hands going down just a bit too low and gripping a bit too hard. He wouldn’t have paid attention, he would have just gone away, if they hadn’t leaned their foreheads against each other’s, breathing in the same small space, their eyes closed; if there hadn’t been on their faces, then in their eyes all day long, _that_ expression. The one he displays himself when he looks at Sofia. The one Sofia displays when she looks at Lincoln. A mixture of love and lust that can’t and won’t be satisfied, a hint of despair, a dash of acceptance.

He wonders if it’s always been here, right in his face, and he never saw it.

He doesn’t understand and he doesn’t want to understand. He knows that understanding and forgiving, and then forgiving and accepting are different things, but for now, the difference is way too subtle. Anyway, to understand, he would have to think about it and it’s really, really something he’d rather avoid. Thinking about it, sooner or later, would imply questions such as since when and why and how many times and how. He doesn’t want to have these answers. He strongly doubts that this is one of those situations where what he can imagine is worse than the actual facts. He’d rather stay in the haze he’s been basking in for a week – actually, he’d rather be totally ignorant of the reality, but it’s not like he has a choice. Sure, he feels like gagging, he has that red veil in front of his eyes when he looks at them. Sometimes, he would dream about it and wake up with a headache and nausea, but all in all, this is a lesser evil. As long as he doesn’t think, he doesn’t risk hating them, despising them or, even worse, pitying them.

He’s frozen in place, indecisive, when Sofia waves the car keys in front of his eyes. He can’t get out, he can’t leave. He reasons that, as long as there will be people in the house, they can’t do anything, and this idea entices him to stay here. To sit in front of the old TV and wait and force them into doing nothing. But then he hears a loud, dull sound on the veranda, a chair hitting the wall. The haze around him tears apart, he can feel his heart in his throat and the red veil in front of his eyes, and he realizes that he can’t do it; he can’t stay here one more second.

 

 __  
**Michael**  


“I’m the one who was supposed to disappear and never come back, right?”

Michael startles when he hears the few words Lincoln just spoke softly. As much as because they usually don’t talk – and certainly not about _that_ – than because the question sends him back to something that was happening in another life. Since Sona, there have been a few fervent embraces, things did get a bit out of hand once or twice and they stole a couple of kisses, but for the most part, it’s something that happened in another life.

“I never left,” he answers. Lincoln rolls his eyes, and Michael can’t blame him for that. He knows very well what his brother means.

He misses Lincoln. He can see him each and every week, but he misses him. For a long time, he thought that the secrets, the broken taboos, the indecency of what they were doing were hard to bear. And it was hard to bear, of course, but recently, he’s started to muse that it was less hard than having lost the weird intimacy they once shared.

“LJ and Sofia are gone."

Lincoln looks at him without understanding. He knows that Sofia and LJ are gone. He was right here when his son – who’s going to hear about that – started the car and made the engine roar awfully. “What?”

“Come on,” Michael says, stretching out his hand. “Please.”

Lincoln stares at the proffered hand, and... “Oh...”

The chairs legs squeal on the floor of the veranda when Lincoln hurriedly gets on his feet and grabs Michael’s wrist to pull him up and against him. Eager kisses, awkward in their haste. A bang in the hallway when Michael pushes Lincoln into the wall and falls to his knees in front of him. A growl, “Not like this, Michael,” when he opens Linc’s pants just enough to take him in his mouth, the growl morphing into a protest because Michael tenaciously holds on to his hips.

“Not like this, for God’s sake!”

Like this or otherwise, it doesn’t matter. He misses Lincoln. He needs to taste, hear, smell, touch and see. Not necessarily in this order. But Linc doesn’t want it _like this_ , so he doesn’t protest when he’s forcefully dragged up and shoved towards the bedroom. His heart pounding in his chest, he watches Lincoln lock the door and close the curtains in a hurry. He could almost smile. He does smile, when after he’s discarded his shirt, he unbuckles his belt and pensively pats the palm of his hand with it, the leather hot and soft on his skin. He meets Lincoln’s eyes; with a complicit grin, his brother holds out his wrists.

He shakes his head. This isn’t what he has in mind, this isn’t what he needs, this isn’t what Lincoln needs. Without a word, he hands him the belt and lies on the bed, on his stomach, his arms stretched out above his head. He merely allows himself a glance above his shoulder to make sure that Lincoln will follow, will play along. Staring at him, scrutinizing him, Lincoln gets rid off his clothes, tossing to the floor shoes, t-shirt, jeans and underwear in a messy pile; he only keeps in his hands their belts, Michael’s and his.

He snakes one the belts around Michael’s wrists, secures it, and uses the other to tie the first one to the head board. Michael’s wrists are bound just a bit higher than the line of his shoulders, and he’s trapped for good. He tries to shift, to part his hands, but Lincoln tied them tight and he really can’t move. He buries his face between his arms and waits. Cooperative, he rises up his hips to help Lincoln pulling on his pants’ legs, rolls his shoulder and arches his back under Linc’s kisses; he sighs when his brother’s hands and mouth slide down, gliding on his skin. Linc has rough hands, always had, and in a successful attempt to increase this sensation, he gnaws and rolls the flesh between his teeth. Michael jumps and tries to get away and closer at the same time, closer and always closer.

“I’ve missed you.”

Lincoln chuckles at that. He bites without holding off in the muscle of Michael’s thigh, hard enough to mark him, then he pulls away and forces up him to his knees. His torso lying on the bed, his head hanging between his arms, it’s not a comfortable position, but he assumes that he owes it to Lincoln, for the many times he tied him up, handcuffed him, restrained him one way or another. And it’s not like it’s unpleasant. It is pleasant. More than that, actually. The sensations of course, but even more the fact that Lincoln knows him by heart, inside and out, and has forgotten nothing about what he enjoys. He strokes and kisses until Michael arches under him, deliberately provocative and begging, ultimately breathing out a plaintive, unfair _Please_.

“You’ve not missed _me_ , Mike, I’ve been right here the whole time,” he points out while kneeling between his spread legs. Michael shivers when he feels him, grits his teeth and clenches his fingers on the belt. Lincoln’s hands slide up his spine to his shoulders, palpating and massaging the taut muscles more than actually caressing them. Michael hears the smile in his voice when he murmurs into his ear, “This is what you’ve missed, baby bro,” and juts his hips forwards.

His knees betray him and give under Lincoln’s harsh thrust. Holding his breath, he collapses on his stomach and Lincoln lies flush on him, covering him, urgent and possessive.

 

 __  
**Reflection**  


There’s a mirror on the wall right in front of the bed; Lincoln pretends he didn’t hang it here purposefully but Michael doesn’t believe him. The mirror reflects a flat, smooth, bi-dimensional image of them: he lying on his back in the middle of the mattress, Lincoln perpendicularly stretched out, his head resting on Michael’s stomach, his fingers tracing lines on Michael’s belly, lazy and selfless.

The image is perfectly composed. Each element counts, matters and comes into play, but everything is actually summarized to a double fact: he loves Lincoln, and Lincoln loves him. He can perceive in the almost static reflection each facet and nuance, each ray of light and dark area, each joy and vicissitude, past and yet to come.

-End-


End file.
